Tale Of A Lost Eagle
by Dark Black101
Summary: A new hero has crash-landed on Pandora; a fugitive mercenary off-worlder. He takes up his former occupation on the wretched dustball, in the hopes of finding his brother, whom he desperately hopes has survived.  T for violence and coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so this is my first fanfic. In case you're wondering – yeah it IS canon, and contains a few canon characters, but the original heroes don't appear – or at least, they aren't the main characters (heheh).

I'm doing this mainly out of boredom, and though I'm not the best writer that ever existed, I don't write purely for fun – I try to add some professionalism in there, yanno, make it fun for the readers too,

Enjoy, and please review!

"_Aguilla, take the escape pod!"_

"What! No! Either neither of us go down, or we both do!"

"_LISTEN TO ME, little brother!" – _BOOM!_ – "There isn't much time! We're going down, whether you like it or not. There's only enough room for one of us in the pod, and I'm telling you, you're getting in it."_

"_I won't! Together, remember?"_

_Silence._

"…_Times change."_

A noise - like someone being locked in an iron grasp, followed by several protesting profanities - sounded from the recorder. Aquilla sighed morosely.

"_You always were the favourite, huh?"_

Aquilla remembered being fastened down into the pod by his older brother, struggling helplessly against his sibling's grip and the infuriatingly secure seatbelts as he was granted salvation. And his saviour was granted doom.

"_Just don't make it in vain, hm? Survive, brother. Live a good life. But before you go, take this."_

Aquilla inhaled sharply and terminated the ECHO replay with the touch of a button. He unfolded his legs from the meditative position he had been seated in and stood, picking up the gadget from the crusty, parched earth and bagging it. The memories of the crash – or rather, the terrifying descent – were all too clear in the fugitive's head.

"Claptrap." Aquilla now addressed the curious little orange robot at his feet, which gazed up at him through its artificial retina. "At your service, sir!" It said mechanically. Aquilla sighed. He had never had any love for robots. Especially talking ones. "How long ago did you say you saw the ship fly overhead?"

"Precisely 14.5892 hours ago, mister." It answered promptly, pointing helpfully to where the rapidly falling ship had soared through the sky all those hours ago. Aguilla could imagine all too well the rusty, stolen spacecraft, its defunct left thruster spewing plasma as it spiralled, out of control, toward the ground.

"If that's where it is, that's where I'm headed." The warrior muttered resolutely, his hand reaching for the pistol in its holster on his left thigh: The most recent – and most likely, final – gift he would receive from his only sibling. It was his family's heirloom, granted to the eldest son by his father for generations. But Aguilla did not feel proud. He felt as if he had betrayed his ancestors, simply by owning the weapon. It had meant to be his brother's.

"Uh, sir? You're bleeding from several wounds. May I suggest Dr. Zed, the very best – and only – doctor in Fyrestone? If you so wish, I shall take you to him immediately." The claptrap suggested, interrupted the man's reverie.

Barely glancing at the robot, Aguilla replied, "Fine", scarcely noticing the cuts and bruises the pod crash had given him. Following the claptrap, pacing across the sand behind the robot's whirring wheels, he crossed Fyrestone's main road, a simple, granite thing, which saw barely any activity, leaving the plastered billboard, which he had meditated near, behind him.

He turned right around a clump of piled trash, following the robot's dust-churned wake, to a makeshift gate, complete with control panel. The claptrap tapped at the buttons briefly, inputting some sort of password, and after a second the gate rose steadily. Aguilla ducked past it as it lifted, and took his first good look at Fyrestone.

The outskirts were grungy and unkempt, with many bunker-looking buildings with a crude, shanty-like feel to them. Holes and such had been patched with unfitting sheets of corrugated tin, and the windows, which were circular and small, were cracked and grimy. Aguilla wrinkled his nose at the place. He'd never exactly lived in luxury, but his first imitation of Pandora was something along the lines of _trash heap_.

Curious residents, some seated on tattered leather seats of their concrete verandas, others from behind their filthy windows, cast Aguilla questioning glances as he passed, still following the claptrap. Visitors were few and far between for the small settlement, and some shook their heads, not wanting their hard, miserable life to be bestowed on others.

The newcomer did his best to ignore the townspeople, and instead concentrated on his path forward. The pair – mecha and man – turned sharply, opening up a whole new area of the settlement. Though it appeared slightly more polished, it was no less rudimentary. There were also far fewer buildings, yet they were quite a bit larger. No living beings could be seen from the street, besides Aguilla himself, and the only activity came what appeared to be some sort of cleaning droid.

Not that it was doing a good job. Above and beyond the buildings was a massive trash mound, reeking strongly even from where the human stood. The pair paused only briefly before the claptrap led Aguilla toward the centremost structure – if it could be called such – and called out. "Dr. Zed! We have a patient who requires your assistance!" At fairly high volume.

After a moment, the garage-like door began to rise, and Aguilla got his first glimpse of Dr. Zed.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay well here's the next chapter. It wasn't really a cliff hanger at the end of the last time, I just thought it the appropriate length for a chapter.

Dr. Zed on the threshold of the massive garage door, staring at Aguilla with a stony expression, his face half hidden by a surgical mask. Blood stained his white apron, which looked more alike to a butcher's attire than a medical coat. His dark brown hair was cropped short and swept back, and in his hand he held some sort of axe-saw hybrid, also coated in a thin layer of scarlet.

"Alright, come on in." He said indifferently after a long moment, beckoning with a white-gloved hand. Aguilla, motionless up until this moment, walked slowly into the shed – for there was no other adequate description. There were bins, which seeped red, and tin shelves with rusty toolboxes, along with a small desk lined with several gruesome-looking items. They didn't look like the tools of a medical professional; they appeared more like a raging psychopath's stash.

The doctor indicated an operating table in the middle of the room, which was really just a rusty metal desktop. Reluctantly, Aguilla came over and sat down, back to the medic.

"Um, just a few scratches and bruises, that's a – "Yeah, I know, kid. It's not hard to tell."

Feeling apprehensive and doubting the doctor's abilities, Aguilla unclipped the shoulder straps of his armour plates and removed it, proceeding to take off his black shirt. The skin of his back was revealed, several gashes and ripe bruises spread out upon it. Zed took out several different devices and got to work.

Aguilla tried to concentrate on the idle claptrap which had set itself outside, playing the recording of a light whistling tune that sounded fuzzy through the speaking device. First the doctor used some sort of sonic anaesthetic device that looked vaguely like an ultraviolet mini-torch that tingled as the doctor applied it to the warrior's nape. He then began to sow up the wounds with a crude, old-style needle and thread that couldn't hurt but still felt incredibly wrong as it punctured and sealed his wounds.

"So, how'd you get these here, son?" Zed inquired nonchalantly as he worked, but Aguilla could sense some underlying curiosity in his tone. The patient debated whether or not to tell the truth, but couldn't find any harm in telling him. Pandora seemed to be pretty disconnected from other nearby planets; this was good, in a way, as Aguilla would certainly not have wanted to be found on his home planet.

"I crashed my ship." He said shortly, as another spike dug into his flesh and he winced.

"Really? Not the most fortunate place to land." Zed muttered, but his patient caught it, feeling no surprise at the words. "So where'd you come from?" He inquired further.

That, Aguilla would not disclose. "Sorry, it's not your business." The sewing ceased, but only for a split second before it resumed. "Hmm, fair enough. We don't get our shortage of that sort, don't you worry." He mused. "So, what're you gonna do with yourself once we get you patched up? I can assure you we don't have any spaceships handy out here. In fact, only the real high-up figures have got any sort of space transport. Government officials, like."

Aguilla pondered that for a moment, wondering what sort of wretched political figures could leave a place like this in such a state of disrepair. But he had seen enough of that in his time to accept it. "I dunno who you are, or what you hope to achieve now that you're stuck here, but if you want to get real close with them government folks, you'll need to amp up your clearance level. Only way to do that is… well, to do their biddin', I spose. Help out with the locals till you prove yerself capable of minglin' with higher society. Not that it's any better."

By now the sewing had stopped, and the doctor began to dab at the warrior's bruises with a piece of cloth with some sort of foul-smelling liquid that sizzled when it was applied to the skin, but quickly got rid of the purple marks. "We got a… bounty board up 'ere, in case anyone needs anything done and is willing to pay for it. But if you _really_ want to get on the higher-ups' good side, you'll talk to Brad Burns. He lives here in Fyrestone, even though he has a clearance level worthy of New Haven. Anyhow, he keeps in contact with some of his government buddies, and you could get some useful information on any dirty work they want someone to do for em' outta him. You'll find him at The Waterhole most days. It's a sorta, pub, if you will."

Aguilla listened silently to the doctor's accommodating facts and guidelines, but couldn't help being suspicious. "Why are you helping me, doctor? You don't know anything about me."

Zed was silent for a moment, considering.

"I spose you mightn't be used to the kind of trouble we have here, kid. Bandits run amok. Local wildlife kills locals on a daily basis. Law and order is changed with every bullet shot. Whenever someone like you – all calm and carryin' himself well, like – walks in, you give em' as much help as you possibly can." Almost the same instant he ceased speaking, the wiping stopped, and he added, "There ya go, good as new. Well, give it a day or so. First patch-up is free of charge. If ya ever find yerself injured again – which, livin' here, you naturally will – you just come here and buy yerself some easy-use medical equipment from the med vendor."

The doctor, now standing in front of Aguilla, indicated a vending machine that had no visible exit slot, but was painted with an ironic picture of a syringe with a bag of ice on it's head. It bore the legend _MED VENDOR_ in large, bold letters. It was the most colourful thing in the garage/operating theatre.

"Thanks, doc. For everything." Aguilla said, putting his shirt back on and buckling up his armor plating. He then stood and began to depart from the doctor's shed. "Aw, you'll be seein' me soon enough." He ensured with a dark chuckle. " Hold up. You use a sword?" Zed inquired curiously, noticing for the first time the dual sheathed weapon upon the fugitive's back. There was a rare tone of interest in the doc's voice. "Two." Corrected the patient, grasping for the comfort of the cloth-bound hilt.

"Hmm." Zed said, indifferent again. "One last thing, kiddo." Aguilla turned obligingly. "Well, a few things, really. First and most importantly, there's already a gang of mercs here – a leader, by the name of Kotur, and couple o' minions of his, or whatever he calls them. They're a rough bunch, and they might not like a new hunter on their territory." He said grimly, Aguilla's answering frown just as grave, but not at all surprised. "Second, the days here are over ninety hours long. An' third, you can stay in the abandoned home two houses along from here. My nephew used to live there, but now he stays up somewhere in the Rust Commons. Well, at least, last I heard of him he was. That was a couple o' months ago now." There was a hint of sadness in the man's usually blunt speech, and all Aguilla could think to do was nod gratefully and leave.

The roller door grinded shut behind him.

The claptrap, with the boundless patience of an emotionless robot, had stayed rooted in its spot for the entire affair, occasionally playing different tunes but mostly sticking to the same, cheerful rhythm. As Aguilla passed the little droid, it spoke up. "The bounty board is just over there, stranger!" It stated, indicated a mainly blank billboard not unlike the one just outside town. It was cracked, grimy, but there wasn't a single note plastered upon it.

Aguilla's stomach sank at the sight; it appeared as though this town was just as helpless as he had suspected. But then the little claptrap groaned beside him, and as the warrior looked down, the droid reached up, muttering to itself, and bashed a loose-looking circuit board plastered near the centre, which appeared as though it hadn't been in working condition for several years. But as the claptrap gave it a good smacking, a blue light blinked on and the circuits buzzed feebly. The image of a small holographic hand projected itself a little ways in front of the blue dome, which caused Alastor's eyebrow to rise; Holographic technology, on this derelict dust ball?

The claptrap extravagantly flourished its robotic arms in the device's general direction, and, sighing, Aguilla pressed his palm to the holographic one.


End file.
